Chapter 3 - THE SCENT OF ASH AND RAIN
The boom vibrated through the floorboards under our feet.
Bruno lunged into the dark gap, snarling viciously.
"Bruno! Heel!" Dante barked.
The ninety-pound dog stopped on a dime, muscles trembling.
Dante stepped in front of Sophie and me.
His gun was raised, two hands locked on the grip.
"Stay behind me," he said.
He reached for the edge of the walnut panel.
He yanked the carved wood back into place.
Click.
The brass mechanism locked.
The cold air was cut off, but the terror remained in the room.
"Upstairs," Dante ordered.
He didn't wait for me to move.
He scooped Sophie up in his left arm, tucking her against his shoulder.
My five-year-old didn't scream.
She clutched his neck as if he were her father.
Her small hands gripped the white cotton of his dress shirt.
"My star pillow," she whispered against his collar.
"I have you," Dante murmured back.
His voice was terrifyingly gentle for a killer.
"That's all that matters right now."
He led us down the grand hallway, bypassing the servants' wing entirely.
We climbed the curved marble staircase to the third floor.
The family floor.
A floor I had never been permitted to set foot on in three years.
He kicked open the heavy double doors at the end of the gallery.
His private quarters.
The room smelled of cedar, expensive tobacco, and rain.
A massive king-sized bed sat on a raised platform beneath tall arched windows.
A fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting amber shadows across dark mahogany bookshelves.
Dante set Sophie down on the center of the bed.
He pulled the heavy wool throw over her bare feet.
Bruno immediately leaped up beside her, circling twice before dropping his heavy chin over her ankles.
"Stay here," Dante told me.
He walked to the lacquered side table beside the door.
He picked up a black landline receiver.
He dialed a single digit.
"Marco," Dante said into the phone.
His voice was razor sharp now.
The hesitation was gone.
The boss had returned.
"Lock the perimeter gates."
"Kill the road lights on the access drive."
"Bring four men to the eastern corridor. Heavy arms."
He listened for three seconds.
His brow furrowed into deep, furious ridges.
"I don't care if my mother is asleep," Dante snapped.
"Wake her."
He slammed the receiver down.
He walked across the room to a glass decanter and poured three fingers of amber whiskey.
He didn't drink it.
He held the crystal glass in his palm, watching the liquid catch the firelight.
I walked toward him.
My wet sneakers squeaked on the Persian rug.
"Dante."
He didn't turn around.
"Who owns that lighter?" I asked.
My voice was trembling, but I didn't back down.
"You recognized the engraving."
"You recognized the date."
He took a slow sip of the whiskey.
The alcohol burned in his throat with a quiet swallow.
"That lighter was a gift," he said softly.
"To whom?"
He set the glass down with a sharp clink.
He finally turned to face me.
His dark gray eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with cold rage.
"To my younger brother, Lucian."
My chest tightened until I couldn't pull air.
"Lucian died five years ago," I said.
"Everyone in Brooklyn knows that story."
"He died in a car bomb outside the navy yard."
Dante stepped closer to me.
He towered over me, six feet two inches of coiled, lethal muscle.
"We buried an empty casket, Elena."
The words dropped into the quiet bedroom like lead weights.
"The car burned to the frame."
"There was no body."
"Only blood on the asphalt and rumors that the New Jersey families had taken him."
I looked toward the bed where Sophie lay stroking Bruno’s velvet ears.
"Why would your brother knock on my daughter's window?"
Dante’s gaze drifted toward Sophie.
A look of profound, agonizing pain crossed his scarred face.
"Because Miguel didn't die by mistake outside that bakery, Elena."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"Miguel was driving Lucian's car that night."
Dante took another step toward me, stopping inches away.
The scent of his skin—rain and woodsmoke—filled my senses.
"Miguel was working for me."
"And the bullet that took your husband was meant for my brother."
Before I could speak, the power in the mansion died.
Every lamp flickered once and extinguished.
The fire in the hearth was the only light left in the room.
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Outside the tall arched windows, a red flare arced into the rainy night sky from the front lawn.
And then, down in the courtyard, three gunshots shattered the dark.
